


Preliminary Experience With A Specific Remedy In A Specific Syndrome Of Human Insanity

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mean Mary, Post-RF, Pre-RF, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6858328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study of Sherlock Holmes's nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preliminary Experience With A Specific Remedy In A Specific Syndrome Of Human Insanity

**Author's Note:**

> This story had an odd beginning. Some time ago I saw a FB posting that analysed Sherlock through his contradictory personality traits. Interesting, I thought. But then it wouldn't let me go and I had to take those traits and try to picture them. [I do not know who made the original post and could not find it again. Sorry.] Anyway, this story evolved and in the end, I am pleased with it. Hope you like it and please let me know. 
> 
> Oh, I should mention that it jumps around in time again! There was really no choice in this case and I have tried my best to make it clear.

I shall conduct a definitive experiment…  
I shall devise a positive remedy.

-Leopold Von Auenbrugger, 1776

 

One: He was too quiet.

1.

 

There were only three places where Sherlock might have gone once he’d fled the unpleasantness that had erupted over the dinner table. His boltholes, Mycroft called them. It might have been nice if his first night back for the summer break had gone better, but this was the Holmes family, after all, and nothing was ever easy.

He accepted that there was no real villain here. His parents were genuinely worried, after all, and Sherlock was only five years old, so essentially blameless. But even at twelve, Mycroft was aware that there were better ways to handle problems. Sadly, though, high drama seemed genetically programmed into them all. At least Mummy and Daddy appeared to realise that letting him handle it was best for the moment.

The first stop on his search was the boathouse, but it was empty. [There were not even any boats there, hadn’t been for decades, save the one rickety rowboat that had come to grief when he was seven and went out in it to pout when a new baby appeared on the scene. Luckily the postman had just made his delivery and saw the boat floundering. Afterwards, Daddy had gifted him with a new bicycle for saving Mycroft.]

Equally empty was the loft above the stables. [No horses resided there, none had since Grandfather’s death.]

So Mycroft sighed and trudged all the way out to the ancient giant oak that towered over the front gate. Once there, he removed his school tie and jacket, rolled his sleeves, and hoisted himself into the tree. In only a moment, he was perched on the limb just below the one that held his little brother.

There was [of course] a long silence.

“You missed a lovely pudding,” Mycroft said finally. “Warm gingerbread with cream.” Mummy had made the dinner a bit special as a welcome home for him.

Sherlock ripped a leaf from the branch and began shredding it.

“They only worry because they love you, Sherlock.”

An eye roll.

“The doctors all say there is nothing wrong with you. Mummy and Daddy just don’t understand why you won’t talk.”

A robin landed on a nearby branch and they both watched it for a time.

“The thing is, you have to attend school in the autumn,” Mycroft said. “It would be a good thing if you began talking by then.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Sorry, but school is not optional.”

Sherlock stared at him, raising a brow. 

“No, you won’t be going off with me. You will attend the local primary, just as I did.”

Mycroft shifted slightly; it was not really very comfortable, sitting on this branch. He thought about what to say next, while Sherlock plucked more leaves and dropped them to the ground, watching their flight with the same avid curiosity with which he viewed so much of life. This was a serious topic and Mycroft had to make his idiot brother understand that.

“Sherlock, when I first went to school it was like going to visit an alien planet. I was surrounded by people who did not understand me and because I thought that the way to fit in was by impressing them, I showed off. Let them know how intelligent I was and what I could see when I looked at them.”

From the expression on Sherlock’s face it was clear that he was listening carefully, although he was still playing games with the leaves.

“It took two bloodied noses and several days of bullying before I realised that I was going about things in exactly the wrong way. I needed to fit in, not stand out.” Mycroft had not thought about those days in a long time. “I learned the art of diplomacy, Sherlock. They are all idiots, even at my prep school, but they are idiots who respect me. I only want to be sure that you do not make your life more difficult than it will already be, Sherlock.”

After another moment, deciding that he done everything he could, Mycroft nodded briskly and made his way back down to the ground. He picked up his tie, dropped it around his neck, and began to pull his jacket on. It was very quiet in the garden and that was the only reason he even heard the whisper that floated down from the tree.

“I would like a dog,” Sherlock said softly, a mere puff of words.

Mycroft paused and blinked away an unexpected dampness that had suddenly appeared in his eyes. “I think that would be fine,” he said after a moment. “When you come inside, go to the parlour and tell Mummy and Daddy.” He wondered if there were something else he should say to Sherlock, but then he just turned around and walked back to the house.

Behind him, he could hear the shuffling of footsteps as Sherlock followed him.

 

2.

John claimed a slight hang-over from the stupid flaming drinks [served in a bloody cocoanut shell, of all things} that Mary had insisted on having with dinner the night before. It was romantic, she said. She could be quite insistent when she wanted to be. And John realised that the fact he was already feeling rather grumpy about his new wife was really not on. They were only on the third day of the honeymoon, after all.

Shouldn’t he be glowing with happiness?

But when he thought about it clearly, John could not remember any real glowing, even on the day of the wedding itself, which had to be wrong, didn’t it? Even after the bombshell of the pregnancy news he didn’t see much glowing.

Anyway, he really didn’t want to go trolling the shops along the seafront yet again, so a hangover seemed like a good reason to stay inside the cool darkness of their suite. Mary eyed him for a moment [suspiciously, if he was reading her right, and what the fuck was that all about anyway?], but then only shrugged. “Don’t be surprised if I come back with another necklace or two,” she said, slinging the colourful canvas bag [from an earlier trip to the shops] over her shoulder. Her tone was the one that was supposed to sound as if she were joking, but he was never sure whether she actually was or not.

At moments like this, for some reason, he always remembered Sherlock’s list of people who hated Mary and then he would feel guilty all over again. He smiled. “I look forward to seeing you model them,” he said and wasn’t that the sort of honeymoon remark that was expected?

She blew him a kiss and was gone.

John waited for a couple of minutes to be sure that she wouldn’t be popping back in for any reason and then he pulled out his phone.

Thirty-two texts in three days. And not a single bloody reply. Complete radio silence from a man who always replied to a text, even if only to tell someone to fuck off. Although not usually in those exact words. Frankly, John would welcome being told to fuck off.

He just held onto the phone for a moment.

A memory replayed in his mind, not for the first time.

Again, he saw Sherlock leave the wedding reception as the dancing began. Watching over Mary’s shoulder, he’d seen the solitary figure pull up the collar of his coat and disappear alone into the night.

Who left a wedding early?

John had adamantly ignored the funny feeling that felt rather like something cracking inside his chest. Apparently, he wasn’t quite as subtle in his feelings as he thought, because Mary gave him a sharp poke with her elbow. “Did you really expect him to stay?” she whispered. “Sherlock hates this sort of thing, you know that. And apparently he won’t even make an exception for his so-called best friend.”

“So-called?” John said.

She shrugged. “He’s left without a word.”

“Well, he cared enough to plan this whole thing, make a speech, and write us a waltz,” John replied perhaps more sharply than he intended.

Mary just gave a soft snort. “Pay attention to your footwork,” she ordered.

So he did.

Then the next morning they boarded a plane and came to this tropical paradise with its flaming drinks and too many bloody shops. And by now he’d sent thirty-two texts that had been ignored.

After being snapped at on the beach the previous day [not for the first time], John stopped checking his phone unless he was alone. Like now. But he didn’t bother texting again; this time he just punched the #1 for Sherlock’s number.

Which rang hollowly until the leave-a-message recording came on, with Sherlock’s voice, sharp and not even promising to ‘get back to you ASAP’. Was there anyone besides John on the entire planet who would have found that brusqueness sentimental?

“Uh, hi, Sherlock,” John said after the requisite beep. “Just checking in. Hope you’re keeping busy. Any good murders on?” John was quiet for a moment. “Hey,” he said then. “Answer my bloody texts, why don’t you? Bye.”

John, while accepting that he was no paragon of self-awareness, nevertheless understood the source of his continuing fretfulness. Even if he did not really understand the why of it. Probably, in this instance, ignorance was indeed bliss. Or at least sanity.

But he just missed Sherlock. Sometimes it felt just as it had when the other man had been ‘dead’.

For a mere minute, he considered texting someone else. Mrs Hudson? Lestrade? Good forbid, even Mycroft? But he knew that each one of them would consider it very odd that in the middle of his honeymoon he would be thinking about unanswered texts. Not to mention how odd it was that he had actually _sent_ thirty-two texts while on his honeymoon.

But none of them, even or maybe especially Mycroft, really understood how Sherlock was. Yes, as he’d said when they met, sometimes he did go for days without speaking [although the longer they had lived together the less that happened] and John had gotten used to it. His role when the silences came was to keep the tea and biscuits flowing.

Was Mrs Hudson taking care of Sherlock now?

Would any of them understand the man who turned up his coat collar and left his best friend’s wedding early?

John grabbed his phone again and punched out yet another text, his finger poking the keyboard angrily. _Dammit, Sherlock, answer me. Please._

Just then, he heard Mary enter the suite. A very short shopping trip, then.

He thought, idly, about asking her how a woman using birth control, a nurse for heaven’s sake, ended up unexpectedly pregnant. But, as usual, he didn’t voice the question. Instead, he shoved the phone under the pillow and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.

**

 

Two: He was too loud.

 

1.

The flashing blue lights of half-a-dozen response cars illuminated the entire street in front of the murder house. A few radios crackled in the background and, even as newly minted detective Lestrade stepped out into the chilly night air, the stench of blood and death lingered in his nostrils.

With a quick, impatient gesture, he yanked a cigarette from the battered pack in his jacket pocket and ignited it. So much for quitting the habit as he’d promised his wife. What the hell did she expect when he had to see sights like that? In his opinion, indulging in an occasional blast of nicotine was the least of what he might resort to on nights like this one. Sometimes, like now, he really wanted a drink. Or two.

London was never really quiet, not even at 03:00, but the low rumble of traffic on the adjacent main road, the annoying radio noise, and the muted voices of the personnel moving around the crime scene all really just served as background noise to Lestrade’s moment of despair. It was an almost comforting cacophony, actually.

Which was why the sudden blast of a too-loud voice coming from just across the crime scene tape startled him. He turned in the direction of the ruckus.

“No, no, no! Were you all born stupid or is there a special class at the academy?” the newcomer roared. “It wasn’t ‘murder-suicide’! Obviously! The daughter’s piano teacher slaughtered the whole family because the girl was going to tell about the abuse. I saw that much just peeking in through the window.”

At that, Lestrade took a deep drag on the cigarette and then exhaled slowly as he strolled over to the tape. A uniformed officer [Donahue? Donovan? Something like that anyway, right?] stood right in front of the shouter, her face stony. 

Lestrade gave the officer a nod and she stepped back just a little. He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it carefully. Then he looked up. “What’s all this about peering in the window of a crime scene?” he said in his most avuncular voice, almost but not really smiling at the young man.

Who certainly looked as if he belonged on the London streets in the middle of the night, at least judging by a first glance. He wore the ubiquitous hoodie, a David Bowie tee that was too big for his gaunt frame, and a pair of ratty, torn blue jeans. “Well, somebody had to actually _see_ what happened in that house!” He was still shouting.

“I am standing right in front of you,” Lestrade said. “Yelling is not actually necessary.” On second glance, he took in the mess of curls and beneath them a definitely public school profile. Yeah, he realised, even the shouts were in a plummy, posh voice.

One more thing: the kid was obviously as high as a kite.

Lestrade kept his expression amiable. “So, let’s review. Window peeping. Interference with an investigation. Drug use. We have a real trifecta here.”

Behind him, he heard what’s-her name give a snort.

In front of him, the kid sneered elegantly. Posh bastard. Lestrade took a moment to reflect upon the fact that even when a person was clad in clothes any charity shop would reject, with a mop of tangled and none-too-clean hair, and glassy-eyed with drugs, class would still show.

Well, no one ever said life was fair. And, anyway, he was the one with the power at the moment.

Although it _was_ a bit impressive that this guy could enunciate perfectly, even when shouting and while stoned. “For me to ‘interfere in an investigation’ wouldn’t there actually have to be some kind of investigation going on?” The smile he flashed was as far from genial as it could be.

Before Lestrade could think of an appropriately officious response to that, one of the techs approached him. “Sir,” he said, “we found this inside and thought it might be important.” He held out a piece of paper already placed safely inside a plastic bag.

Lestrade took it. Tilting it toward the light, he read the few words written neatly on the paper.

_Monday, NSY, 11:00, Detective Inspector Aimee Dawes_

It took him a moment to realise that Donahue [?] was reading over his shoulder. Nosey. Or ambitious. Probably both. “She’s head of Child Protection Services,” the woman said.

Lestrade knew that, of course.

Even though she had spoken softly and he was in a drug haze, the git still heard her words. “Aha,” he said and Lestrade wondered if he even knew how to speak in a normal voice. “As in SEX ABUSE!”

Several neighbours who had been lingering on the fringe of the scene suddenly looked very interested.

“Shut up,” Lestrade said tightly.

“You know, sir,” Donahue [definitely] said, “this creep seems to know a whole lot about what happened here. Way too much, don’t you think?”

He stared at the kid for a long moment. “What’s your name?”

“Shezza,” came the sullen reply.

Well, of course it was. Lestrade just kept staring at him.

If he were the sort to be put off by a ferocious scowl, the detective would have stepped back. But he was not and did not.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the kid finally said and that fit.

“All right, Sherlock Holmes, just how do you know so much about what happened here?”

There was a bored sigh. “I observed. Something that might be recommended to the Yard.”

Now Lestrade smiled again. “Well, why don’t you tell everyone down there all about their shortcomings in person?”

Holmes muttered something under his breath and Donovan looked much too pleased as she shepherded him to a response car.

It was nearly two hours before Lestrade was able to get to the interrogation room where Holmes had been stuck. The kid’s head was resting on the much-used table, cushioned on his folded arms. He didn’t stir when Lestrade dropped into the other chair. “We just arrested the piano teacher,” he said.

Holmes only grunted in response to the news.

“That was pretty interesting, what you did out there.”

“Simple,” was the muffled response.

“Maybe for you. Although next time, try to do it without violating a crime scene. And being high.”

“Boring. May I go?”

“Sure. Your ride is waiting.”

Now the head lifted and the bloodshot eyes narrowed. “A pompous git with a big nose and a shiny black car?”

Lestrade nodded. “Your brother,” he said, “according to him anyway.”

Holmes groaned, but pushed himself to his feet.

“Funny thing is, we didn’t even call him. He just turned up.”

“He does that. Should be illegal.” Then Holmes exited the room, obviously reluctant to face the man waiting for him.

Tired, Lestrade stayed where he was. He could hear the already familiar voice from all the way down the corridor as he apparently railed at the brolly-toting and somehow menacing figure who had appeared without actually being summoned.

The Holmes brothers, apparently.

Lestrade decided he needed coffee. And maybe a doughnut.

 

 

2.

One of the first things that John Watson ever learned about Sherlock Holmes was just how bloody loud he was. All the time, really. There was the shouting, of course, but John was used to that and even contributed more than a bit of yelling of himself.. But even on those days without speaking that had been promised [threatened] at their first meeting, Sherlock was far from silent.

There were the sighs, of course, and he had an entire vocabulary of them. John took a certain quiet pride in the fact that after only a few months of cohabitation he had become an expert in deciphering the meaning of each and every iteration of Sherlock Holmes’ sighs. 

Also, there was the flouncing. Which sounded like a quiet sort of activity, but really wasn’t when the flouncer was 1.88 meters of consulting detective. Between the slap of bare feet against the floor and the swish of one or another of his silk dressing gowns [another subject altogether], not to mention the low gravelly growl that often accompanied said flouncing, Sherlock Holmes flouncing was far from a quiet performance. 

Even just stirring his tea could be a symphony of mildly annoying sounds.

Anyway, the point was, Sherlock Holmes was loud.

Ironically [and John hated irony, always had, but never more so than now] it turned out that Sherlock was even louder after his death than he had been before that dreadful day at Barts.

As a consequence, John lived surrounded by the noise of a dead man.

The dusty violin case sitting in the corner brought forth a symphony of remembered music, soft notes that twisted around John and wouldn’t be drowned out even by the volume of the television being raised ever higher, until the married ones next door complained.

Just walking into the kitchen created a subtle stirring of the air that caused test tubes abandoned on the table [despite Mrs Hudson’s best efforts to remove them] to rattle.

Old floors always creaked, of course, but now the creaking sounded like bare feet pacing through the flat all night.

A soft breeze disturbing the curtains became a silken echo.

It was all enough to make John press both hands to his ears in an attempt to block everything out.

Because the sound of the kettle at the boil always served as a brutal reminder to only make one cuppa instead of two, John started making his tea in the microwave, which made for horrid tea, but was easier to deal with.

And it was not as if leaving the flat helped very much.

After all, London and its sounds were inextricably a part of Sherlock’s DNA, so hearing the noise of the city made it possible to think that John was not walking along the road alone. If he listened extra hard, he could almost make out the whispers of rapid-fire deductions directed into his ear.

Sometimes he went to the noisiest, most crowded pub he could find, sat at the bar alone and let the ruckus fold around him. It helped a bit, but also, unhappily, only made it worse when he finally stumbled his slightly drunken way back to 221B. And once inside the flat, the noise of absence would swallow him again.

Eventually, John would crawl into bed and then he would pretend that the sounds of the night were really Sherlock in the kitchen conducting his experiments, solving crimes, flouncing and pouting. Living. Sometimes, when the alcohol and the loneliness became too much, John would pretend even more. He would imagine that Sherlock had come into the room, settled on the side of the bed and talked to him in a liquid dark chocolate middle-of-the-night voice until he fell asleep.

In the morning, he was never sure if it had all been a dream or real until he searched the flat and realised that he was completely alone.

Finally, John packed his bags and left Baker Street, moving into a flat that was quiet all the time. When he went out into the city, he wore headphones and listened to music on his I-pod to drown out the whispered deductions. 

He lived alone on an island of silence with only the fading echoes of what his life with Sherlock Holmes used to be like keeping him company.

**

 

 

Three: He took things too seriously.

 

1.

Sherlock knew how these things worked.

Well, strictly speaking, he had not _really_ understood how this sort of thing worked until he’d spent a couple of hours in the library researching. A lot of what he’d read seemed ridiculous in the extreme, of course, but Sherlock accepted that his unfamiliarity with such occasions meant that he could not dismiss even the most absurd suggestions without due consideration.

This whole situation had started when he’d accidentally looked at a calendar and realised that in just a few days it would be six months since they’d met. Vaguely, he was aware that people liked to make a bit of fuss over important days like anniversaries. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to prove that, no matter what anyone else said, Sherlock Holmes could do the right thing in a relationship.

It also seemed clear that sometimes a surprise was appreciated. So Sherlock began to plan in secret.

He bought a new shirt to wear on the night. It was a dark hunter green, which the sales clerk said brought out his eyes nicely. She was probably just flirting to help make the sale, but, still, the colour did seem to suit him.

He could not cook, of course, but it was a simple matter to have a nice meal delivered. Italian, he decided, and then bought a bottle of fairly expensive red wine to accompany the pasta.

Custom seemed to dictate that a certain amount of Romance would be appropriate, so he bought a candle to put on the table [well, the desk, actually, but he cleared everything else out of the way] and spent considerable time looking for appropriate music.

In order to maintain the surprise, he deliberately kept the invitation casual, not even hinting that something special was happening.

In a corner of his mind, Sherlock wondered if this might be the night that things went further than just the hot, damp snogging they’d had three times thus far. It seemed as if that might be the next logical step, although he was not really certain how he felt about it.

Apprehension aside, by 19:00 on Saturday night, Sherlock was ready. The food was keeping warm in the insulated bag. His new shirt looked as good as he’d remembered and his hair was artfully tousled. The wine was opened and breathing. He tried on a smile and it felt right.

The knock on the door was louder than he had expected, startling him and drowning out the soft strains of Sibelius’s Violin Concerto. He lit the candle quickly, smoothed the front of his shirt and went to answer.

Victor stood in the corridor, holding a can of lager in one hand. From the expression on his face, it wasn’t the first drink he’d had. It took a moment for Sherlock to also notice that Victor wasn’t alone. Two of his football teammates stood behind him, also slightly tipsy.

Sherlock did not know what to do.

Victor pushed his way into the room, followed by the other two. “Mullins and Daly decided to come along,” he said. “The more the merrier, right?”

Sherlock just stood there, wondering why everything had gone so wrong, feeling awkward and flushed. The small residence hall room suddenly felt very crowded.

Victor was the first to spot the table, set for two, with the flickering candle and wine. “Looks like you were expecting someone else, Holmes. Forgot you asked me over for a drink, right?” He gave a sharp laugh. “Looks like you’re planning a fucking romantic evening.”

Sherlock still hadn’t closed the door. He wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his trousers. “No, I…”

“Well, hell, that’s fine. Ladies come first, right? Bet it’s that cute little ginger from the bio lab. She’s been gagging for you all term.”

Sherlock wondered when the world had started to wobble on its axis. He knew it would be better to say nothing, but his treacherous mouth betrayed him. “It was for you…for us,” he whispered. “Six month anniversary since we met.”

There was a long pause and then Daly started laughing. “Oi, Trevor,” he said. “Holmes has gone all soppy for you.”

Victor did not look best pleased.

For some reason, Sherlock decided to step over to the table and blow out the candle. “Never mind,” he muttered.

Again, there was only silence, save for the soft tones of the music still playing. Without Sherlock even noticing that they were leaving, Daly and Mullins were suddenly gone and it was just Victor in the room with him.

“What the fuck, Holmes?” Victor said.

From somewhere, Sherlock managed to retrieve a tiny bit of his dignity. He raised his head and straightened his shoulders. “Apparently I…misjudged things,” he said quietly.

“Apparently. Just because we snogged a couple of times when we were pissed doesn’t mean I’m a faggot. Doesn’t mean I want to celebrate any fucking anniversaries with you.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything else.

After a moment, Victor left, slamming the door as he went.

Sherlock never unpacked the delivered meal. Two days later he dropped it into the bin on his way to class.

 

2.

It was only a stupid quarrel.

They had them all the time and occasionally Sherlock even thought that they both secretly enjoyed the give and take of a good shouting match. Usually, one or the other of them would bring the thing to an end by retreating to his room and slamming the door loudly as a full stop to the argument.

Usually whoever was left standing in the parlour would continue to fume and mutter for twenty minutes or so before putting the kettle on. Sometimes a few biscuits would be tossed onto a plate and peace would be restored.

All that ruckus was only a part of life inside 221B and even Mrs Hudson no longer offered any comment, save for an occasional tut-tut if things got too loud.

But there was something different about this evening’s quarrel. And it wasn’t even a quarrel, really. No shouting. Sherlock didn’t realise anything was even wrong at first, intent as he was on the slides he was examining under the microscope. His mind was fully engaged with the details of a case, which had started off as rather boring but which was turning more interesting by the moment.

Vaguely, he was aware of John entering, apparently home surprisingly early from what was the third date with…someone. Well, at least this time he couldn’t blame Sherlock for whatever disaster the evening had turned into. He had stopped texting completely after John’s definitely testy reply to the fifth message. Honestly, was it so difficult to just turn off his phone if Sherlock was that annoying?

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Sherlock said, not lifting his head. “I need you to do some research on---” He realised belatedly that John had thrown his jacket at the hook and, when it missed, ignored the fact that it had landed on the floor. Then he simply stomped up the steps to his room and slammed the door.

Were they quarrelling? If so, Sherlock had not realised it. He frowned fleetingly before returning to jotting down a few notes on the dirt samples.

It was only a few minutes before John came back downstairs. He had changed into some soft pyjama trousers and a faded teeshirt promoting some rock band of which Sherlock had never heard [unsurprisingly].

“Excellent,” Sherlock said pleasantly, “now that you’re comfortable we can talk about the case.”

John did not even look at him. Instead, he went to put the kettle on. 

“Good idea. Some tea would be lovely. Now, about the research---” 

“Fuck your research,” John said in a quiet, calm voice.

Oh, that wasn’t good. With John, quiet and calm sometimes came before an explosion. Sherlock thought back over the whole day, but could come up with nothing that should have ignited his prickly friend’s ire. Unless… Sherlock thought carefully about what to say. “I hope my few texts did not…interrupt your evening.” That sounded like an excellent apology, if one were actually needed.

John took two cups from the shelf and dropped a teabag into each one. “Well, your texts did not really help.”

“Sorry, but I thought---” 

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” Now his voice sounded…sad. He poured the boiling water over the teabags and stared at it as if he had never seen the process of brewing before. When it was finished, he added milk and sugar in the appropriate amounts and brought both drinks to the table.

Sherlock immediately took a careful sip. “Very nice,” he said. Sometimes paying a compliment was appropriate. And John did make the best tea. Would it be all right now to return to the case?

But John gave a sigh.

No case yet, then.

Suddenly, without even taking one swallow of his tea, John stood and went back upstairs. Sherlock stayed where he was, feeling awkward and unsure, which he hated.

When John appeared again, he was wearing blue jeans and trainers. He picked up his jacket, then paused. “I don’t think I can do this right now,” he said.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “What can’t you do?”

“Be here,” John said and then he left.

Sherlock blinked at the door for several moments. Then he finished his tea. He carried his empty cup and also John’s untouched one to the sink and rinsed them both carefully. Finally, he went to the window and stared down at Baker Street. The usual pedestrian traffic was passing below, but none of the people were John, so he ignored them.

He wondered what he had done wrong. Whatever it was, it must have been so dreadful that it had driven John away. Sherlock rested his forehead against the cool glass and wondered what he should do next.

Or for the rest of his life.

Which was a rather terrifying thought.

If he were forced to go back to the life he’d had before John Watson walked into the lab at Barts, Sherlock knew that he might actually be tempted to go back to the worse parts of that life. Not that he wanted to. He enjoyed the work, felt as if he were excellent at it, but just now it occurred to him that a large part of that enjoyment was because he now shared all of it with John.

When had John become so vital?

Well, he had saved Sherlock’s life back when they’d first met. And several times since then, in ways big and small. Sherlock remembered something he’d read years ago, without recalling the context exactly, but one thing stuck in his mind. It was…Chinese, he thought.

_If you save someone’s life, you are forever responsible for that person._

So how could John just march out of his life the way he had done?

It was wrong, that’s all.

After a time [ten minutes, an hour, a week], Sherlock left his position by the window and went to collapse on the sofa, wrapping his favourite dressing gown around himself like a shield. He could think of nothing else to do.

It was a measure of his desperation that he briefly considered ringing Lestrade and demanding some sort of official action. Namely, find John Watson and bring him home. But then, Sherlock snorted at the absurdity of that idea. No doubt the detective inspector would make some feeble protest about lacking the power to make an adult go somewhere he didn’t want to be.

Obviously, desperation was edging into total madness because his next thought was that there was one man who had the power to make anyone do anything and that maybe he should ask Mycroft…

He cut that thought off instantly. He could only imagine his brother’s response to such a request.

_Oh, brother mine,_ he would say in that unctuous voice, _have you lost your pet doctor? How very careless of you._

No. No help from that quarter either.

When Redbeard died, Mummy had made him a special Victoria Sponge, with raspberry jam and sweet milky tea. Maybe if he rang her, she would do the same now.

But she would also look at him with that same sad, pitying expression in her eyes as she had then and that would be unbearable.

So he would just lie here and think about something else.

_Putrefaction, the final stage following death, produced mainly by the action of bacterial enzymes…_

Perfect. Apt, even.

It was sometime near dawn when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock did not turn over to watch him enter. Probably he was here to pack. After all, he could not begin a new life without all his dreadful jumpers and his horrid Boots shampoo and his gun.

But John didn’t go up to his room. Instead, he settled in his chair, after punching the Union Jack pillow a couple of time. “I owe you an apology, Sherlock,” he said quietly.

Sherlock stayed very still, so that he did say or do the wrong thing again.

“Bethany and I broke up, which I am sure you already figured out. In the process, she did a rather scathing analysis of my various issues and reached some painful conclusions.” John paused, before taking a deep breath. “Not saying she was wrong. But those are my issues to deal with and it was quite wrong for me to blame you for any of it. From that first dinner at Angelo’s you made yourself quite clear. And I meant it when I told you that it was all fine. It is. My issues are mine alone and I will deal with them. I hope you can forgive me for my behaviour earlier.”  
Sherlock had no idea what was going on, but only one thing really mattered. “Are you staying?” he said.

“Of course I am,” John said briskly.

Finally Sherlock rolled over and looked at him. The expression on John’s face would require some thought to decipher. “Well, good,” Sherlock said and he could feel himself returning to normal. Which meant that his next words were just a bit haughty. “Try not to be such an idiot in future when some woman breaks up with you.”

John gave a short, harsh laugh. “Not going to be an issue,” was all he said before standing. “I’m exhausted. Going to bed.”

“Good night,” Sherlock said.

John gave a wave as he turned around and headed for the stairs.

Sherlock released a long sigh. Good god, dealing with idiots was exhausting. Then he smiled a little, turned his back to the room again and once more considered putrefaction. No longer apt, but still interesting.  
**

Four: Or not seriously at all.

 

1.

She walked up the filthy, slightly rickety staircase, taking care not to touch the disgustingly sticky banister or trip over any of the rubbish that littered the path. Her nose twitched at the myriad and unpleasant odours that hung in the air so thickly that they seemed almost visible.

A memory: the sweet scent of a laughing baby boy fresh from the bath, unmistakable and painfully unforgettable.

She knew that Mycroft would be beyond irate if he knew that she had come here, especially alone. But there had been no choice, really.

Sometimes a mother had to take things in hand herself. Especially when a child of hers was in trouble. Even if said trouble was entirely of his own making. Maybe especially in that case.

It was as simple as a mathematical expression.

She reached the second floor without disaster and stopped at the door with the lopsided 3. After straightening the rusty metal digit, she tapped on the door. Unsurprisingly, there was no response, so she knocked again, harder this time.

“Go away,” said a raspy, but still recognisable, voice from inside.

She did not go away. Instead, she reached out and with a tiny moue of distaste, turned the knob. The door swung open and she stepped inside. “Hello, Sherlock,” she said to the sheet-covered lump occupying the middle of the stained mattress that had simply been dropped on the floor.

A memory: the expression on a little boy’s face as he falls asleep in his new bed that looks exactly like a pirate ship.

The sheet moved and her son peered out. This face was pale, far too thin, with one purpling bruise on his jaw.

_Oh, my baby boy, what seas are you sailing on now?_

“Mummy?” he said after a moment.

She saw one unpainted wooden chair sitting next to a small table. The top of the table was covered with cardboard cups, some empty, others holding tea that had obviously been sitting there for days, the milk curdled on top. One mouldy slice of pizza rested in the mess. She winced at the other objects there, the tools of the addict.

She dragged the chair closer to the mattress, aware that Sherlock was watching her carefully, and sat, keeping her handbag in her lap.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked. His lips looked dry and cracked.

“Well, you declined my invitation to tea, so I came to see you.”

Sherlock seemed to have recovered from the shock of seeing his mother in the flat. He uncurled his body slowly, stretching out. There was one battered pillow on the mattress, which he took and shoved behind his head. Propped up, he smiled at her. “I didn’t decline. I simply chose not to respond.”

“Which was rude, you know.”

He ran a hand through his matted, sweaty hair. The curls hung listlessly around his face.

A memory: the unhappiness of a boy after his first haircut, scowling and touching the much shorter and very un-pirate-like curls, and vowing never to return to the barber again.

“Sorry, Mummy.” Sherlock’s smile shifted towards a smirk, which rather made her want to send him to his room without pudding. “Unfortunately, I am unable to accept your lovely invitation to tea due to a prior engagement.”

She glanced at the table. “Yes, I see your ‘prior engagement’.”

He reached under the corner of the mattress and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Breakfast,” he said brightly. Then he held out the pack. “Want one?”

“No, thank you.”

He shrugged and ignited the cigarette, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes.

“We are worried about you, Sherlock.”

“No reason to be. As you can see, I’m fine.”

“I suppose that rather depends upon one’s definition of fine,” she said tartly. 

“Possibly. According to my definition, I am fine.”

“Mycroft told us about the overdose last month.”

Sherlock frowned. “Mycroft should mind his own bloody business.”

A memory: her two sons spending an entire night shipwrecked in the back garden at Sherlock’s request, Mycroft already too old for such things, but agreeing to play the game with his little brother.

“He cares about you.”

Sherlock snorted. “He cares that his career should not be damaged by having a druggie brother.”

She didn’t really know what to say to her brilliant son bent on self-destruction. “Why are you doing this?” was what she finally murmured.

“Bored,” he said.

For a moment she thought she must have misheard. “What?”

“Bored! Bored!” He was nearly shouting.

“You could die.”

“Well, at least I wouldn’t be bored anymore.” His smile was bright and it broke her heart.

They sat in silence, Sherlock smoking as she watched. When he had smashed the end of the cigarette out on the floor, he looked at her. “Sorry, but I have places to go, people to see. Thanks so much for visiting. Best to Daddy. Worst to Mycroft.”

She nodded and then, as was their habit, held her cheek in his direction. Sherlock scooted closer and planted a kiss there.

A memory: kisses from a toddler, from a sticky little boy, from an awkward twelve-year-old, from a sullen teen.

As she made her way back down the stairs, she could hear him whistling. Beethoven. 

A memory: her beautiful boy giving a private concert for his parents and his brother, standing in the parlour, proud and delighted when they applauded his performance.

When she was safely back home, Sherlock’s mother rang her other son and told him to arrange for Sherlock’s commitment to a rehab facility, whatever it took to get him there. Whatever, she repeated. Then she put on a tape of a fourteen-year-old playing Beethoven, made herself a cuppa and listened to the music and her memories as the afternoon turned to evening.

 

2.

The first time it happened, Sherlock barely even noticed what John had actually said. They were in the middle of a case, a half-interesting case for a pleasant change, and certainly John should have known better than to try talking about anything else. They both knew [theoretically, at least] that the rules had not changed just because they were sharing a bed now.

Still, Sherlock had learned [through sometimes painful experience] not to react with angry impatience when John occasionally behaved like every other idiot in the world. So he resisted snapping out something insulting over the interruption. 

He forced a smile, finally realising what John had said, and assuming it was a joke. John did that sometimes, made a joke to break the tension. “Oh, very funny, John,” he said scathingly.

After a moment, without saying anything more, John went to turn the kettle on.

 

The second time it happened, nearly two months later, they were slowly walking through Regent’s Park. It was all rather pleasant: a case satisfactorily concluded, a quiet celebratory dinner with the indulgence of some rather nice wine, and now a slow journey home through the lingering summer evening.

Sherlock had both hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers as he strolled at John’s shoulder. He was thinking idly of taking John immediately to bed when they got home. He had startled himself by realising just how much he enjoyed musing over that sort of thing. It was still a daily surprise to him that they had come to this point in their relationship.

They paused to watch a makeshift football match for a moment and then moved on.

He heard John take a breath, which meant he was about to say something about which he was nervous. 

“So, what would you think about maybe making us official?”

Actually, Sherlock was still thinking about how his fingers might soon be moving across John’s slightly soft belly and about how the feel of his slightly callused fingertips would make his lover giggle just a little. Therefore, it took a moment before he could answer. “What are you saying? Are we not already ‘official’? We each possess a passport, a National Insurance Card, and we are on the tax rolls. Isn’t that quite official enough?”

John sighed. “Prat,” was all he said.

They had not walked very far before Sherlock realised that he had, once again, put a foot wrong somehow. Really, if John were going to carry on with this joke, then what did he expect? Although, to be honest, Sherlock was not quite sure where the humour lay in this instance. John was not usually inclined to be cruel with his jokes, but the whole idea was so ridiculous. Why would anyone, especially someone like John Hamish Watson, want to tie himself permanently to Sherlock Holmes?

It was laughable.

More importantly, and despite the fact that they shared a bed and sometimes got hideously sentimental post-coitus, Sherlock could not really believe that this, whatever it was they had, would last forever. His intention was to accept it all for as long as it existed. One day John would weary of the complications and irritations and move on. Or he would meet another woman, hopefully not a psychopathic assassin who would try to kill Sherlock, and _really_ want to get married again. What would happen to Sherlock at that point did not even bear thinking of.

Meanwhile, John seemed determined to carry on teasing Sherlock. So Sherlock had to keep things light. He grinned at John, who still looked a bit grumpy. “We could go have sex instead,” Sherlock said. “First one home gets to choose what we do.” He set off running and for one horrid moment, he thought that John was not going to follow him.

But then he heard the familiar sound of John’s shoes pounding the pavement behind him and immediately felt better. 

 

The fourth time John asked [three months later] Sherlock said yes. 

 

**

 

Five: He was too sensitive.

1.

It all looked very good.

Sherlock posed just a bit in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the lines of the new black suit. In his opinion, Daddy’s tailor had done a very adequate job. This was his first-ever bespoke suit; previously he had made do with altered off-the-rack clothing. But now that he was fourteen, he was deemed old enough to justify the expense of something like this.

Sherlock was pretty certain that he only wanted to wear bespoke clothing from this day on.

He’d had to argue a bit for the waistcoat, but now seeing the deep aubergine silk against the black shirt, felt it had been worth trouble. He smoothed the front of the waistcoat and smiled. No tie. He’d flatly refused to wear one, using the excuse that he could hardly be expected to play his best if he were being strangled at the same time.

He fussed with his hair for a moment, but it was what it was and he was not displeased. Mummy had suggested a haircut, but he had refused that as well.

Mycroft, of course, made a snide remark about spoiled brats, but he had become unbearable since graduating from uni, so Sherlock just ignored him as usual.

He knew that it was stupid to be so excited about this. It was not as if he were playing at Albert Hall, for pity’s sake. This was only his parents’ annual dinner. They preferred to get all the tedious social business for the year done at one time, so this dinner was it. Mummy was not-so-secretly pleased that there would only be few more such dinners. Once Sherlock was off to university, they planned to sell this pile and buy something much more sensible. But tonight, far too many important [self-important, Sherlock thought] people would be turning up, including government officials and even a minor royal. Mummy had cautioned him against mentioning that designation, however.

Mummy had asked him and he had agreed to make this evening the first time he had ever played for anyone beyond the family and his music tutor, of course.

Was he nervous?

No, he told himself firmly.

Not nervous, just excited.

 

Of course, there was the ordeal of dinner to get through first.

He was seated near the middle of the long table, with Mycoft just across from him. His brother was talking avidly to someone from one of the more shadowy government departments, which made Sherlock snicker.

On his right was a girl of about his own age, the blond and tanned daughter of…someone. The chair on his left was occupied by a boy who looked vaguely familiar. From school, probably. Mummy still hoped he might make some friends. Sherlock concentrated on his plate, carefully cutting into the prime rib.

Taffy [was that really her name?] beamed a cosmetically enhanced smile in his direction. “My brother Freddie was at your school last year,” she said. “Did you know him?”

Sherlock just shook his head, not even thinking about it. He didn’t know anyone, really.

The boy to the left leaned forward a little so he could look at the girl. “Freddie Hayes-Palmer? On the cricket team, right?”

She nodded.

“Great chap. Holmes here wouldn’t know him. He never leaves the library. By the way, I’m Anthony Black.”

Taffy giggled, for no discernable reason.

“I do go to class,” Sherlock said softly. “So not always in the library.”

“He knew you, though,” Taffy said to Sherlock. “Used to tell the funniest stories.” She seemed to realise that perhaps she had just insulted the son of her host. “I never believed them,” she hastened to add.

The other boy laughed. “Oh, I expect they were all true. Holmes is…unique.”

Sherlock wished they would talk about something else. Or better yet just shut up. He took a tiny bite of asparagus.

“Freddie is a great one for pranks,” Anthony said.

Taffy nodded. “He can be a bit annoying about it, in fact.” She smiled at Sherlock again, as if they were bonding over her irritating brother.

A vague memory of Freddie was coming back to him. Big and stupid were the words that came to mind. He pushed his plate away. “Oh, yes, Freddie is a laugh a minute. For an idiot. I was very amused the day he threw my chemistry lab book onto the roof of the gymnasium. When it landed in a puddle and ruined three months worth of work I laughed even harder.”

Taffy looked at him. “Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it, not really.”

Anthony snorted. “You think everyone is an idiot.”

Sherlock gave a faint smile. “And you all keep proving me correct over and over.”

Anthony leaned forward again. “Did Freddie ever tell you Holmes’ nickname? We call him The Freak.”

Taffy tried not to giggle once more, but couldn’t quite manage it. She was obviously flirting with the boy.

Sherlock wondered why someone would feel free to insult him in his own home. He was starting to feel too warm inside his perfect suit. He stood, which drew Mycroft’s gaze. “I need some air,” he said to his brother, who only nodded, and then left the dining room, hearing some very familiar laughter behind him as he went.

His earlier excitement had evaporated and Sherlock wished he could just go up to his room and pretend this evening had never happened. But he didn’t do that. Instead he went out to the balcony and stood there in the near darkness; the only light came from inside the house.

It was some time before Mycroft emerged. Of course, he wouldn’t have left the table before the pudding had been served. He stood by the railing and lit a cigarette, a new habit developed since leaving uni. Mummy disapproved. “Tedious, isn’t it?” he said.

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“You shouldn’t care what people say, you know,” Mycroft pointed out. “They don’t matter.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered. And he really did know it. But he still felt badly when people called him names. Like Freak.

“Work on not caring,” Mycroft advised. “Life will be easier.”

They stood in silence, Sherlock inhaling the second-hand smoke from Mycroft’s cigarette.

Finally, Mycroft crushed it out under his foot. “Mummy wants to know if you are coming back inside to play?”

He thought about saying no, but he knew his parents would be disappointed. So, instead, he straightened his jacket, smoothed his lovely waistcoat, and nodded.

“Good,” was all Mycroft said, before leading him back into the house.

 

 

2.

The morning after they slept together [i.e. had sex] for the first time, when they were actually still wrapped together in Sherlock’s bed, his phone broke the silence, indicating an incoming text. John swore and shoved a pillow over his head. “Ignore it,” he mumbled.

Sherlock, piqued at having his pleasant half-asleep cataloguing of the previous evening’s activities interrupted, was nevertheless usually constitutionally incapable of ignoring a text. It might be something interesting. Without stirring otherwise or loosening his grip on John, he reached one long arm out and snatched the phone up from the bedside table. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on the screen.

“Lestrade?” John guessed.

Sherlock grunted. “Supposedly a locked room murder in Greenwich,” he said. “Huh. Probably his idiot underlings just can’t find the correct door. Locked room murders never really happen.” He sounded sad over that fact. “Well, rarely.”

John wriggled around so that he could see Sherlock’s face. “Good morning, you,” he said softly. His eyes were a tender brown.

Meeting that gaze, Sherlock suddenly felt shy, which was ridiculous, considering where his mouth had been only a few hours earlier. “Morning,” he mumbled. As inept as he might still be at normal human interactions, even Sherlock Holmes understood that something else---something more---was called for here. “Last night was…good,” he said finally.

John gave a sudden laugh, but Sherlock knew immediately that he was not laughing at him. It was just a reaction to a moment of joy. John was happy and did not regret what had happened. Sherlock felt himself relax a little.

And so, deciding that the dead man was not going to get any deader, Sherlock rolled on top of his lover [!] and kissed him until they were both breathless.

 

The crime scene was still in some disarray by the time they arrived. Donovan, no more cheerful than ever, showed them upstairs to the previously locked room where the body still waited. No deader, indeed, than he would have been had they not taken an extra thirty minutes to get there. Lestrade grumbled anyway, as Sherlock did his usual survey of the scene and then crouched to examine the infamous lock.

John stood on the periphery until he was required.

Donovan was standing next to him. “You look bloody cheerful,” she said, as if that fact were baffling.

“Any reason why I shouldn’t be?” he replied mildly.

“Well, living with the freak would put me in a bad mood everyday,” she said.

No one else would have even noticed the slight tightening of Sherlock’s shoulders. Even after Sherlock’s return and the clearing of his name, Sally Donovan still treated him with scorn.

“Don’t call him that,” John said. He knew that the underlying steel in his voice could not be missed.

“Huh,” Donovan said. They stood in silence for a long moment. “What I don’t understand,” she went on then, “is why you came back. I mean, you were married. You had a normal life.”

No one beyond a very small circle people knew how completely not-normal that marriage had been.

“Why would you throw all of that away just to run around after him again?” She looked at him as if seriously interested in his answer. Then her gaze sharpened as she looked at his neck. “Is that a hickey? It is, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock was completely still when John glanced at him.

Even Lestrade was quiet, until he said, “Donovan…”

She looked from John to Sherlock. “Are you two…Oh, my god, you’re actually shagging him?”

Abruptly, Sherlock straightened and then he was gone, down the stairs and out the door.

John swore under his breath, shooting Donovan a deadly look and followed.

He found Sherlock standing on the pavement two houses down the road.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when John approached.

“What for?”

“For not telling you about the---” He made a gesture towards John’s neck. “You could have covered it up. So they wouldn’t know.”

“Why wouldn’t I want them to know?” John brushed an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead.

“Well, I assumed you…”

“You assumed incorrectly. Hell, maybe I’ll take out a notice in the Times,” John said.

Sherlock tried to assimilate that information, which was not easy because it conflicted with everything he’d thought about anyone in a relationship with him would feel. Judging by past experience.

John grinned at him. “After all, Mycroft would be delighted by a happy announcement.”

Sherlock couldn’t help a little chuckle.

John held out a hand and after a brief hesitation, Sherlock gripped it. “Shouldn’t you go back in and solve the case for Lestrade?” he suggested.

“I already solved it.” Sherlock gave a sigh. “Now I just have to explain it to them.”

“Do that. After, I will take you to brunch. And then to bed, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock almost smiled. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Good.” Still holding his hand, John led the way back into the building.

**

 

Six: Or he was too cold-hearted

1.

Sherlock could honestly not believe his luck.

Not that ‘luck’ had anything to do with it, of course. This opportunity had come about through his own hard work on far too many ridiculous so-called cases that had been brought to him since the beginning of term, as well as the handbills he had posted all around the university.

All of that seemed to be paying off now, with the most promising client ever.

The girl had been waiting for him outside his residence hall when he arrived there after class. She was pale, too thin, and had recently started biting her nails. Her clothing, a blue skirt and white polo, showed signs of having been slept in. “You Holmes?” she said as soon as her eyes spotted him, so someone must have described him to her.

Fleetingly, he wondered what that description might have consisted of.

“I am,” he replied.

“My name is Abby Danvers and I need to hire you.”

As if he were an automobile she wanted for a weekend jaunt. Sherlock studied her for a moment, taking in her reddened eyes and trembling hands. He never let anyone into his room, not since the whole Victor humiliation, so instead he led the way to a nearby bench and they sat. “Who died?” he demanded, before she had a chance to speak.

Her eyes widened a bit. “How did you know--?” Then she shrugged. “They said you were clever.”

“I am.”

She took a deep breath. “My boyfriend. Jake. Jake Bowers.”

That was all she said, but it was obvious why she was here. “You don’t believe it was suicide as the authorities claim.”

Abby nodded eagerly. “Why would he do something like that? Jake was happy. He was about to finish his course, we were talking about getting engaged. He had no reason to…do what they say he did.”

Sherlock leant back against the bench and crossed his arms. “In my experience, people keep secrets.”

“Not Jake. Not from me.” She spoke firmly and sounded quite convinced of the truth of what she was saying.

Which meant absolutely nothing, Sherlock knew, because people, especially those who claimed to be ‘in love’ were idiots. Still, even an unlikely murder was better than anything he’d had before, so he agreed to take the case.

He collected all the necessary details from her and accepted twenty-five pounds as a retainer. The folded notes went immediately into his pocket, adding to his Get A London Flat fund. If his parents or Mycroft were not willing to help him towards that goal, he would do it himself.

After he finally managed to send the girl on her weepy but determined way, Sherlock rushed to drop his book satchel in his room and then hurried off again. His destination was the police department, where he talked his way past the front desk to reach his contact.

That contact, Ryan Smith, was an aspiring detective inspector, who was at least clever enough to believe that knowing a genius with a knack for solving puzzles might prove helpful to his career. He was even willing to overlook a few minor transgressions revolving around illegal substances in order to maintain their arrangement. Depending upon how cynical he was feeling on any given day, Sherlock thought that Smith would either flourish in the police department or end up going to prison himself. 

After some persuasion, Smith fetched out the crime scene report and photographs, although he insisted that Sherlock had to stay right there at the desk and look at them.

As he settled in with a cup of bad tea, Sherlock felt as if it were Xmas morning and he was about to open the best gift ever. A real murder case. Possibly.

Sadly, in the end, it all came to nothing. He could tell simply by studying the photographs that Jake Bowers had indeed hung himself in his room, just as the coroner had determined.

He even knew why the boy had done it, although there was no indication that the authorities did. But he didn’t think the police needed to know the motive, so he just gave a nod to Smith and left.

 

The girl met him at the same bench the next day, ready for his report. Sherlock didn’t bother to sit this time. “Sorry,” he said immediately, “but your boyfriend did hang himself.”

Her face paled even more. “But why?”

“He was failing his course, so not going to graduate as he had led you to believe. Oh, and he was gay and didn’t want to tell you. So no murder.”

Abby just stared at him.

Sherlock gave her his fake smile, which by default had actually become his real smile. “So we’ll call it done, shall we? You needn’t pay me anything more.” That was generous of him, he thought. “Goodbye.”

He left her still sitting there and headed for the lab to check the progress of his latest mould experiment.

 

2.

There was only silence in the room, save for the soft crackling of the fire.

Not surprisingly, the interior of Mycroft’s home bore a strong resemblance to that of the Diogenes Club. Leather, heavy dark wood, the scent of old money and pomposity. Sherlock took a sip of the fine brandy, held it in his mouth briefly and then swallowed, waiting for his brother to speak.

Mycroft seemed content to simply watch him for another moment. Then, after also taking a small taste of the brandy, he finally spoke. “You are being rather cold-blooded about all of this, aren’t you?”

“Words of praise, coming from you. I am flattered.” He leaned forward just enough to set the crystal snifter on the mahogany table, ignoring both the coaster and subsequent frown aimed his way.

“I just doubt that many people could talk so calmly about jumping off a building to their death.”

Now it was Sherlock who frowned. “You may have missed the point of this entire conversation, brother. Which is, in fact, to insure that I do not die when I jump. And remember that actually taking that leap is the very last resort. I do not want to fake my suicide. But it might be necessary and if it is, I would like adequate preparations in place.”

“Moriarty would certainly like to see you destroy yourself.”

Sherlock ignored that. He picked up the drink again and this time took a gulp and did not savour it. “Hmmm,” was all he said.

“You will need help.”

“As little as possible. Some of my homeless network to provide a horrified crowd.”

“And in the hospital itself?”

“Molly Hooper, of course.”

Mycroft smirked. “Of course. Her devotion to you will be useful.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Mummy and Daddy?” Mycroft sipped and swallowed.

“Oh, do whatever you think is right,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

“They can be trusted.”

Silence returned for a moment.

“And what of Dr Watson?” Mycroft asked then.

Sherlock pressed his lips together briefly and stared at the fire. “What about him?” he said.

“Don’t you think that he will be upset? Or are you planning to let him in on your little secret?”

“I can’t.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “I would have thought that he had earned some trust by this time.”

“I trust him.” Sherlock shifted a bit on the soft leather of the chair. “But John Watson is a terrible liar. I mean, he cannot lie well,” he amended quickly. “His genuine grief will make the whole scenario more believable.”

“And what do you imagine that ‘genuine grief’ will do to the good doctor?”

“What do you mean?” 

The question was so casual that Mycroft knew it was very important to his brother. “Considering his emotional state when you met…”

Sherlock dismissed that with a shrug. “He’s fine now. And I don’t expect to be away that long.”

Mycroft looked as if he wanted to say more.

“He’ll be fine”, Sherlock said quickly to prevent that. “He’ll pick up more hours at the surgery and date a series of terribly dull women and be horribly bored until I get back and life can return to normal.”

Thankfully, Mycroft just nodded. He glanced at his watch. “We have more to discuss, but right now I have to make a telephone call to---well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock muttered.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Mycroft carried his brandy with him and left the room.

Restlessly, Sherlock stood and walked over to the window. He looked down at the traffic below. After a moment, he leant his forehead against the glass. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Then he straightened and went to the desk to start poring over the maps that Mycroft had spread open there.

 

Seven: He hated with every fibre of his being.

1.

It was breathtakingly hot and liquid seemed to hang in the air waiting to fall at its own pleasure. Sherlock stood at the window of his small hotel room and looked at the western view over the city. The 90 km journey from the coast to Hanoi had taken much too long, especially for a man already exhausted from a seemingly endless voyage in the hold of a small fishing boat.

He could still smell the fish, even after a shower.

Exhaustion, of course, was his usual state of being by now. Little wonder, after eight hundred and twelve days of this existence.

There were other ways to measure his life.

Four broken bones.

One knife wound, followed by a rather nasty infection.

Endless cups of bad coffee and worse tea.

Five people dead by his hand.

Endless days and nights of…nothing.

He leaned a bit out of the window and thought that he could see Ba Vi, the highest peak of the mountains that surrounded Hanoi. But he had no more time to stand here looking at the landscape. He pulled on an almost clean shirt, checked to see that his gun was loaded, and headed out into the city.

Not because he was actually hungry, but because every so often he tried to do something to please John, Sherlock stopped at a food cart and bought some Pho Ga with chicken. It seemed especially appropriate today for him to do this for John.

He finished the soup quickly and headed towards Old Town.

His target was the man whom he had been hunting for eight hundred and twelve days. The others had been important, of course, but this man needed to be eliminated. His was the gun that had been pointed at John Watson that horrid day at Barts. He was the threat that had been hanging over John since then.

What he did tonight would not be the end of this twisted saga, not at all, but it would put him several steps closer to the end. And he would be able to relax just a little, feeling as if John would be a bit safer. With his assassin gone, no one would be able to take John away before Sherlock could get back to him and their life could begin again.

Sherlock had first seen this man in Paris, months ago, had thought the hastily assembled plan would work, but things had gone pear-shaped very quickly and what resulted was that knife wound. The pain of the injury was over-shadowed, however, by the fear that Drago had somehow recognised him, had seen through the ginger hair and grungy clothes to see Sherlock Holmes, realise that he was still alive, and then go to kill John.

But instead the man headed for Somalia. It had taken this long for Sherlock to track him down again, across several continents, always just missing him. But the trail never led to London, so that was fine. Sherlock had tried to interest the authorities in several different countries in arresting Drago, but, as always, money and influence spoke more loudly than his meagre evidence. So he managed to get a message to Mycroft and received permission to act as he saw fit.

[Not that he wouldn’t have done so anyway, but he really had no desire to end up in prison himself once he managed to get home, so the government imprimatur was important.]

It was going to end tonight, of that Sherlock was determined. No one was allowed to hurt or even threaten to hurt John. [It was not the time for him to wonder if the person who had actually hurt John the most was ironically the same one trying to protect him now.]

It was getting dark by the time Drago stumbled out of the bar where he had been drinking for hours. Sherlock felt the frozen core of hatred that he’d carried inside for so long flare into an icy fire. A part of him did not just want to kill Drago, but to make him suffer first, torture him in a thousand little ways.

But Sherlock was a practical man.

So there was no torturing. No taunting.

Well, maybe a little taunting. That was allowed, surely.

Soon Drago was flat on his back in the alley, still trying to get at Sherlock’s gut with a very sharp knife, even with the barrel of a small black gun pressed to his forehead. Almost pleasantly, dodging another jab of the blade, Sherlock said, “This is for John Watson.”

Drago’s eyes widened as he recognised the man about to kill him. 

Afterwards, Sherlock treated himself to more Pho Ga.

 

2.

He almost ignored the text.

And why not? He had nothing at all to say to that woman. It was difficult enough trying to keep up a phony civility---even a mockery of friendship---when he was forced to be in company with John and his ill-chosen spouse. Did John really believe that all the bonhomie between them was genuine? It beggared belief that even he could be that much of an idiot.

Mary Morstan [in his mind, she was never Mary Watson, being undeserving of the name] had shot him down in cold blood when all he had done was offer to help her. He had died and only the thought that John was in danger forced him to fight his way back to life; he remembered the nightmare of being trapped with Moriarty and struggling so hard to survive. Even worse, in some ways, was how she had lied her way into marriage with a decent man like John, further ensnaring him with a pregnancy. 

It would suit Sherlock perfectly if he never had to see or speak to her again, but that did not seem likely unless he cut John out of his life completely and that he did not want to do until it was absolutely necessary. Which he knew would happen at some point, so every minute he spent with John now was even more important. 

There was no choice, really. 

So, in the end, he sent a reply agreeing to meet with her.

It did not seem unreasonable to insist upon said meeting taking place in a public venue. After all, he knew that she hated him nearly as much as he hated her. So here he was, sitting on a bench amidst the crowds enjoying a lovely day on the South Bank. He had a cup of takeaway tea from the nearby café and was mildly wishing for a cigarette, as he often did.

He could see her approaching from some distance away as she still wore that dreadful red coat, which he thought should have been binned after the pregnancy. But her fashion sense had always been appalling. As she got closer, he could see her unbleached roots and lines of weariness; motherhood was apparently wearing her down.

“Sherlock,” she said, dropped onto the other end of the bench.

Instead of replying, he only nodded and took a swallow of the tea.

“I decided that it was time you and I had an honest talk.” She seemed to have just noticed a patch of baby spit-up on the front of her coat and pulled out a wad of tissues to rub at it.

Sherlock raised a brow at her.

She gave a soft snort. “Yes, I realise that honesty is not something either one of us is terribly practiced at.”

He could have continued the policy of not speaking, but felt obliged to defend himself. “I only ever lied to John to save his life,” he said stiffly. Which was not entirely true, of course, but none of those other lies were important at all, in the big picture.

She finally gave up on the stain and shoved the tissues back into her pocket. “I only ever lied to John so he could be happy,” she said.

“Oh, that worked out well, didn’t it?” Sherlock replied. It occurred that she did not learn from experience: she still reeked of Claire d’Lune, even out here in the open air.

“You don’t think John is happy?” She sounded bored rather than genuinely curious.

Sherlock glanced at her. “I think he wants very badly to believe that he is.”

“And I suppose you know better?”

“I have always known John better than he knows himself.” Sherlock drained the last of the tea and crushed the cup, before tossing it into the nearby trash bin.

“Really?” Mary laughed without a hint of humour. “And yet you thought he would be waiting patiently for you to come back from your jaunt around the world chasing the bad guys. Must have been a shock to find out that he had a life without you.”

_He was waiting for me_ Sherlock thought, but did not say. He watched the tourists taking selfies. “He has a life built on lies,” was what he did say.

She only shrugged.

Weary of the conversation, Sherlock straightened and spoke brusquely. “I assume there was a point to this little tete-a-tete? Could we possibly get to it?”

Mary nodded. “I think one of the reasons for John’s unhappiness is that he keeps trying to live two lives at one time. A balancing act, if you will. I don’t think this is sustainable.”

Sherlock was not surprised by her words. In fact, he had rather been expecting this for some time. He’d even thought that perhaps John would be the one to bring the subject up. He felt oddly glad that it was this woman instead. But he kept his tone cool. “Well, it will have to be you that forces him to make a choice. I would never do that to John.”

She sneered. “The ever noble Sherlock Holmes.” Mary was quiet for a moment and then she shook her head in mock sadness. “The unhappy Sherlock Holmes. Unrequited love is pathetic to see. It is so very ordinary and you despise being just like the rest of wretched humanity.”

He ignored that.

Mary finally stood, smoothing the front of her horrible coat. “I was really just trying to do you a kindness, Sherlock. When John starts to turn down your invitations to join him in your little adventures, now you will know why. He will be making a choice.” With that, she turned around and walked away.

Sherlock clenched his fists, possibly to restrain himself from chasing after and pummelling the woman mercilessly. It occurred to him that he hated her even more than he’d thought possible before this moment.

And the worst thing of all was that he knew she was undoubtedly right. John chose her, even after Sherlock was back. John chose her, even after she had shot Sherlock and been revealed as a liar, a killer, a psychopath. So it seemed clear that John Watson would always choose her.

In that moment, he made a decision. There would be no chance for John to start refusing to come along on the cases, because Sherlock would just stop asking. Making a clean break would be better for both of them. Well, it would be better for John, certainly, and even now Sherlock could not seem to stop trying to do the best he could for John Watson.

So: One more sacrifice on the bloody altar of sentiment.

After a few minutes, Sherlock stood up and walked towards the road where he could get a cab.

**

 

Eight: Or loved with every fibre of his being.

 

1\. 

Sherlock could still hear the music as he walked away, the mocking notes seeming to chase him through the night as he made his escape.

_Who leaves a wedding early?_

Turns out there was a very simple answer to that question: a man whose heart [yes, he bloody well had one] had been shattered into a million pieces over and over again and who could not bear to stay at a party and pretend that it was all fine.

It was not all fine.

Sherlock Holmes accepted that he was not a good man in so many ways. But he had done all he could for John Watson, first to keep him alive and safe, then to give him the happiness he wanted. Or thought he wanted. Yes, Sherlock felt that he had done his best to be Good for John.

But now, tonight, he was so tired of trying. So he left a wedding early.

And no one noticed.

Not ready to go back to Baker Street yet, Sherlock ended up in Regent’s Park, after hours, which was the way he liked it best. John, of course, had always tut-tutted about going into the park when it was officially closed. Not that his reservations ever kept him from accompanying Sherlock. But now, he decided, John had no more right to comment on what Sherlock did or didn’t do.

Which was why, when a cigarette suddenly appeared in the air in front of him, Sherlock took it and let Mycroft light it. Sadly, his brother did not then simply vanish, which would have been ideal, but instead sat on the bench as well. They smoked in silence for a bit.

Of course, it was Mycroft who broke that silence. “You had to know, Sherlock, that this day would come. Even if you had not travelled the world for three years.”

Sherlock exhaled. “I wish everyone would stop talking about it as if I were on some extended gap year.”

“Well, that was rather the attitude you projected upon your return. Breezy, insolent. What were people supposed to think?”

Mycroft was right, so Sherlock ignored what he’d said. He leaned forward to crush out the cigarette. “If I had been here, she would not have been able to…” His words dwindled off as he realised that they were revealing far too much.

Mycroft gave a soft sound that might have been a snort. “Frankly, I think the former Ms Morstan would have been quite tenacious with or without your presence.”

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. “You said that you knew nothing about her.”

“At the time I did not. And I still know very little.”

Sherlock thought about how pleasant it would be to apply his fist to Mycroft’s smug and pompous face. “Well, it’s too late now, so you might as well shut up about it.” He pulled the scarf out of his coat pocket and wrapped it around his neck again. One extra layer of armour.

“You should have fought harder for him,” Mycroft said.

There was no sense in dissembling with his brother, so Sherlock didn’t even try. “And made myself appear even more pathetic than I already do? To what end, exactly?”

When Mycroft had no answer, he preferred not to speak, so the silence returned.

Finally, Sherlock stood. “I’m going home,” he said. “Please do not follow me.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Find a case. Keep yourself busy.”

He thought about telling his brother that he already had a case, one that would keep him very busy in some interesting and possibly dangerous ways, but said nothing. Instead, he just walked away.

Once back at the flat, Sherlock changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown before stretching out on the sofa. He intended to think about the case, but instead he found himself thinking about John.

Maybe he should have done what Mycroft said and fought harder. But that would probably have led John to rejecting him completely. _Not gay, Sherlock._

At least this way they could still be friends. That was something.

Well, he thought, that was undoubtedly going to be Everything.

As he let his mind wander, he could hear again the notes of the waltz he had written for John alone and then pretended was for the happy couple. The truth was this: Not a single note of the composition belonged to Mary Morstan.

 

2.

Sherlock was rather relieved to discover that every bit of his self-respect had not deserted him. He sat board-straight in his chair, keeping his face shuttered.

He was not really surprised, of course, and had actually been expecting this development since the first moment Mycroft had appeared two days earlier.

 

“Well,” his brother said in that way he had, “your fondest wish has come true.”

“You are retiring to an island just off the coast of nowhere? With absolutely no way of communicating with the outside world?”

“Very droll, I’m sure.” Mycroft sat in John’s chair, ignoring the frown Sherlock aimed at him.

Well, it was irritating. Just because John had not appeared in 221B in forty-one days did not mean that the chair was available to any Pompous Git who invaded the flat uninvited.

Mycroft took a file from his briefcase. “I know that you have not had any contact with Dr Watson in, ahh, forty-one and a half days, so you are probably unaware of recent developments.”

Sherlock wished that Mycroft---and everyone else in the universe---would stop talking to him about John. They had not seen one another since the whole farce of Moriarty’s fake return had been revealed. Just after that had come his meeting with Mary. He had not tried to contact John and, true to Mary’s word, John had not contacted him. Well, except for the 57 texts that Sherlock had ignored. And then one day the texts stopped coming and that seemed an end to it.

This was his life now. Shouldn’t Mycroft and the others just be glad that he had not taken up permanent residence in Wiggins’ drug house? Instead, he was working cases and lying on his sofa. If this life suited him, they should just shut up and let him be.

“The latest news is that as of two days ago, Mary Watson or Morstan, if you prefer, has left the marital home, taking all of her belongings as well as the infant. At last report, she was en route to Brazil.”

Sherlock waved a lazy hand. “Oh, they’ve had a spat. John is sometimes very difficult to live with, you know. And Mary is a bitch. So there are bound to be bumps in the road.”

“You might think so, “Mycroft agreed. “But one of the few things she left behind was the results of a paternity test showing that John Hamish Watson was not the biological father of the infant to whom she gave birth.”

At that, Sherlock sat up. “John is not….”

“No. And she has known the truth since before the baby was born, of course. Even before this development, however, my sources tell me that the honeymoon was well over.”

Sherlock had no idea what he was meant to do with this information.

“Dr Watson has spent the time since her departure drinking alone in their flat.” Mycroft stood up and dropped the folder onto the table in front of Sherlock. “And, finally, from what I have recently confirmed, she is so much worse than any of us thought. The good doctor is far better off without her.”

“I doubt if he thinks so,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft left without saying anything else.

 

And now, two days later, John was standing in 221B. Looking somewhat bewildered and definitely hung-over.

One part of Sherlock wanted to reach out and embrace this man he loved so desperately and secretly. He did not allow himself to do that, however. Instead, he got up from the sofa and went to the table. Once there, he began fiddling with the microscope.

“It’s over,” John said flatly. He had dropped a duffel bag just inside the door.

“Yes, I imagine so,” Sherlock said blandly. “You are not a man who likes to be taken for a fool. My sympathies, of course.”

John just looked at him for a moment. “You know?” Then he gave a bitter half-laugh. “Of course you do.”

“I suppose you are looking for accommodation? Well, I am sure Mrs Hudson would have no objection to you occupying the second bedroom again.”

“And what about you?”

Sherlock could not meet John’s eyes. “Always happy to be of use.”

John sighed. He walked over to lean against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms across his chest.

There was no knowing how many times Sherlock had fantasised about this very scenario. John leaving Mary and coming home to Sherlock. But he hadn’t actually left her, had he? She had left him. That seemed to put a entirely different spin on this.

“It was all falling apart almost from the beginning,” John said. “How many fucking texts did I send you from my honeymoon?”

Sherlock knew the number, of course, but he didn’t say so.

“And, after the whole fake Moriarty thing, you stopped answering my texts again.”

“You had made your choice, John.”

“That’s not fair. I had responsibilities.”

“And I left you to them,” Sherlock pointed out reasonably. He wanted to ask if this conversation was really necessary. “Which is what your wife told me personally that she wanted.”

“Why did I have to choose in the first place?” There was something of a petulant child in John’s voice.

At that, Sherlock finally looked up at him. “I had done everything I could do to insure you had what you wanted, John, even to the point of committing murder; what else did you expect of me?”

“I expected you to be my friend,” John said, now speaking with what sounded like anger.

“I have always been that,” Sherlock said wearily. “Even now when I am not a real choice you are making, but only a default. I am even willing to be that. But it was asking too much to expect me to feign friendship with the woman who shot me. Again, John, you had made your choice. I respected that.”

“I made the wrong choice.” John turned around suddenly and went to fill the kettle. “I always made the wrong damned choice.”

“Well, maybe you will do better next time. Until then, you are welcome to live here.”

“Thank you,” John said.

Sherlock turned back to his microscope.

Behind him, he heard John speak again, softly. “You are not the default. You never were.”

Sherlock thought it was best to pretend that he hadn’t heard those words.

 

They spent a quiet, almost painfully normal evening. Sherlock even deigned to eat some of the Chinese John went out to fetch. Finally, while Sherlock busied himself writing up the results of his experiment, John stretched out on the sofa and watched Midsomer Murders.

It was nearly midnight when Sherlock looked up and saw John sleeping, the remote still in his hand. Very quietly, Sherlock walked over to take the remote and hit the off button. Since the upstairs bed was not made yet, he decided that John might as well stay where he was.

Sherlock pulled the quilt from the back of the sofa and carefully covered John. Tucking him in really. Instead of going to his own room immediately, however, he knelt next to the sofa and stared at John’s face. Even in sleep, he looked unhappy. Maybe a good case would come in tomorrow; that would cheer John up. Lifting one hand, Sherlock carefully smoothed John’s hair. “Welcome home,” he whispered.

He leaned forward and lightly kissed John’s forehead.

Then he pushed himself up and headed for his bedroom.

*****

 

When the pain cuts you deep,  
When the world seems so cruel,  
And your heart makes you feel  
like a fool…  
Just look and you will see,  
I promise you will see that I will be  
your remedy.

-Adele

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked this. I am leaving in a bit for London, but will be online, so comment if you are so inclined. I will also be doing Postcard Tales II, so hope you will look forward to those.


End file.
